


Bad

by ThornWild



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Blood, F/M, Horror, Sexual Violence, Spike is insane in the basement, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 15:02:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThornWild/pseuds/ThornWild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Do you know how much blood you can drink from a girl before she'll die? I do. You see, the trick is to drink just enough, to know how to damage them just enough so that they'll still cry when you… Cause it's not worth it if they don't cry.' Spike's insane in the basement, where The First taunts him in the guises of people he's killed, forcing him to relive his darkest deeds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad

The basement is cold, and it soothes me, somehow. Cool concrete underfoot, cold brick at my back. Keeps the memories away. Lets me blend into my surroundings, room temperature, as though there was no spark.

Keeps the memories away, until someone talks to me. Until _it_ comes to me, taking the form of someone else. Of Glory, who tortured me. Of the Master who, as my great great grandsire, owned me. Of Adam, who controlled me. Of Drusilla, who loved me, and Buffy, who didn’t.

And countless others, dead people, people I killed. A Chinese Slayer, who speaks to me in a language I can barely understand. A young man from Prague, babbling at me in stilted English. People whose deaths I orchestrated, or was otherwise responsible for, and every time I see them, I relive them. It’s like falling asleep and dreaming, and then I wake up, feeling sick to my stomach.

Was this really what I wanted?

‘Of course it was,’ it says to me, whispering in my ear. ‘This is what you wanted. You asked for this, begged for it, went through trials for it, because while you used to be a sadistic bastard, now you just want the pain.’ She steps out in front of me, looking down at me. A red-headed girl from London, in a green, blood-soaked dress. She has her hands on her hips, and she glares at me in contempt. ‘Remember, Spike,’ she whispers. ‘Remember what you did to me!’

* * *

London, 1896:

It was just after dusk on a Thursday night in November, when there came a knock on the front door of one Mr. Jonathan Jenkins of Notting Hill Road. A round, pleasant looking woman in an apron opened the door to me. I was dressed in a very fine, brown suit. My black overcoat was covered in droplets from the rain, and I had an equally black umbrella hooked over my right arm. My dark honey blond hair was tied back in a ponytail and I kept the expression in my blue eyes gentle as I said, ‘Good evening. Might I enquire after Mr. Jenkins?’

The woman, most likely the housekeeper, stood back. ‘Certainly, sir. Come in. Who shall I say is calling?’

I stepped inside, shaking the cold rain off my umbrella. ‘My name is William Pratt, miss. I am a friend of Sir Henry Jackson’s, your master and I met at one of his functions a few months ago.’

‘Right this way, sir,’ said the housekeeper, once she had helped me out of my coat. She showed me to a small, yet elaborate parlour. It was furnished very handsomely, with green silk arm chairs and heavy mahogany end tables. I sat back in one of the arm chairs as the housekeeper bustled out again.

A minute later, she returned with her master, a tall, thin, greying man in a tweed suit. ‘Mr. William Pratt, sir.’

‘Thank you, Emma,’ said Mr. Jenkins, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. ‘Mr. Pratt,’ he said, sitting down opposite me. ‘I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, for I cannot recall our meeting.’

‘Oh, I’m not surprised, sir,’ I said, smiling amiably. ‘Our meeting was very brief, at Sir Henry’s charity ball at his country home in Devon last summer, and I daresay I am entirely forgettable.’

‘You know Sir Henry well?’ asked Mr. Jenkins.

‘For most of my life,’ I lied with ease. ‘We were never close when we were younger, too far apart in age and temperament, but we are certainly well acquainted. I have just spent a week at his apartments in Kensington.’

‘And how is Sir Henry?’

‘Oh, he’s a bit under the weather, I’m afraid,’ I said, a pained expression crossing my face. ‘Quite ill. Very ill, in fact.’ _Dead._

‘Good Lord, whatever’s the matter with him?’ asked Mr. Jenkins, clearly shocked. 

‘I’m not rightly sure. But it’s looking grim for him.’ _His entrails are strewn all over the drawing room floor._ I studied Mr. Jenkins’s face intently, then sat back in my chair again. ‘But come, let us talk of happier things!’

‘Indeed,’ said Mr. Jenkins. He stood. ‘Can I offer you a drink, Mr. Pratt?’ 

‘Oh, yes please,’ I said with a smile. Mr. Jenkins walked over to a side board by the window, upon which stood several crystal decanters filled with amber liquids of various kinds. He selected a rather fine Calvados and busied himself with filling two glasses.

‘If you don’t mind my asking, sir, what exactly is your purpose in calling here this evening?’ asked Mr. Jenkins while he poured.

‘Oh, no real purpose,’ I replied, standing up out of my chair. ‘I simply found myself in the neighbourhood and recalled our meeting, and Sir Henry speaks so highly of you, and of your late wife.’

Mr. Jenkins paused his pouring. He stood still for a moment, before putting the stopper back in the decanter. ‘You must thank him for me, the next time you see him,’ he said, softly. Mr. Jenkins turned around to offer me a glass of Calvados and found me standing rather closer than he had expected.

‘I understand you have two daughters?’ I said. 

‘I… Yes. Madeleine and Annabelle.’

‘Delightful,’ I purred, my expression darkening. ‘I’ll bet they’re good enough to eat, your girls.’

‘Sir, I’m not entirely–’

‘I fear you may have stumbled onto my purpose in being here, Mr. Jenkins,’ I said, taking another step closer. Mr. Jenkins backed up into the side board.

‘I think you had better leave,’ said Mr. Jenkins in a voice both quiet and restrained. I smiled, then.

‘I’ll bet your girls taste just as good as their mother did,’ I hissed.

‘This really isn’t very funny, Mr. Pratt,’ said Mr. Jenkins, setting the glass he was holding down behind him. ‘I demand that you leave my house this instant!’

‘Doesn’t work like that, mate,’ I said. ‘You already invited me in. And the name is Spike.’

Before Mr. Jenkins had the opportunity to react, or to make a sound, I had reached out with both hands, grabbed hold of his head and twisted his neck clear around. Mr. Jenkins slumped to the floor with a thump, and laid there motionless.

I grabbed one of the glasses on the side board and downed the Calvados in a single swallow.

* * *

I shake and shiver, my eyes shut tight, as though that will help keep the images away from my mind. 

‘Why are you doing this?’ I whimper. ‘I know what I did, I know what I am! I’m a bad man… I know… I do…’

‘No, you don’t,’ says the girl. She’s on her knees in front of me, and when I open my eyes again, they look straight into her angry green orbs, burning like flame, piercing me. ‘You have to remember, Spike. Remember me, remember all of us. This is your punishment.’

‘My… my punishment?’ My mind is hazy, and I can barely see through the tears clouding my vision. ‘My punishment for… for hurting the girl?’ I pause, hesitant. ‘For hurting all the girls?’

She nods. ‘Now you’re getting it,’ she says, smiling.

* * *

I sniffed the air and crept through the house, following the scent of young, fresh blood. I had made a quick stop in the kitchens, where I made short work of Emma the housekeeper, an elderly footman, a cook named Beatrice and a chamber maid who had been young enough and pretty enough that I might have made a proper meal out of her if I hadn’t already had other dinner plans.

The corridor was carpeted in rich burgundy, and its walls were wallpapered in pale pink and green embroidered silk, with dark wood wainscotting. I was getting close, I knew, when I caught a whiff of something else. I halted, as around a corner a woman stepped into view. She was young and beautiful, not yet twenty-one by the looks of her, with dark hair that fell past her shoulders in ringlets. She wore a sensible, blue dress and a green shawl draped over her shoulders. She stopped in her tracks when she saw me, head cocked to one side.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

I put on my best smile. ‘You can indeed, miss,’ I said. ‘I’m dreadfully sorry, but I appear to be rather lost… I was visiting with Mr. Jenkins in the parlour when he fell ill, and I thought I should let myself out, but I must have got turned around somewhere… As I assume that’s not the front door.’ I indicated the one behind her. 

‘No, indeed,’ she said, smiling at me. ‘That would be the door to the nursery, and you are in entirely the wrong part of the house, Mr…?’

‘Oh, Pratt. William Pratt. I thought so, I really do have the worst sense of direction. Could I trouble you with showing me back to the entrance hall, Miss…?’

‘Winters,’ the girl replied. ‘Charlotte Winters.’

‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Winters,’ I said, offering my arm. ‘You must be the governess, then, I suppose?’

‘You have a keen eye, Mr. Pratt,’ said Miss Winters, taking my arm and smiling. We began to walk in the opposite direction, away from the nursery. ‘I am indeed. I just finished supping with Miss Annabelle. It is nearly her bed time.’

‘And what do you do once the children are asleep, love?’ I asked, a twinkle in my eye. Miss Winters halted and studied me quizzically. ‘I am simply curious,’ I amended when she didn’t speak.

‘I’m sure you are, Mr. Pratt,’ she said. ‘Please do not consider me a tease when I say that I have no intention of satisfying your curiosity.’

‘Beautiful _and_ eloquent,’ I murmured, taking her hand. ‘When do you have your night off, Miss Winters?’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you entirely certain you should be–’

‘Flirting with you?’ I finished.

She snatched her hand back, but her smile remained. Then she turned her gaze away. ‘Did you say Mr. Jenkins fell ill?’

I rolled my eyes. Of course. The young governess and her widowed master, a love story for the ages. Grieving over his dead wife, he takes comfort in the beautiful young woman who happily surrenders to him. There is much love and lust and pain and heartache. Classic, yet dull. I really was getting very hungry, and didn’t have time for this. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He went to lie down. You should join him.’

I clapped a hand over her mouth and pulled her close. She yelped, but did not have time to scream. Her eyes widened as my face changed, my blue eyes turning yellow, my forehead turning bumpy and strange, and my teeth… She struggled, but I held her fast. 

‘Miss Annabelle is in the nursery?’ I growled. I didn’t need to ask, I could smell her, but the scent of the governess’s fear was intoxicating, and I liked to play with my food. Miss Winters nodded. ‘And Miss Madeleine, the little princess, she is in the room next door?’ Miss Winters nodded again. ‘And that would be her bedroom?’ When Miss Winters did not respond, I twisted her arm and she nodded, tears streaming down her face. ‘Thanks for all your help, love,’ I murmured, before sinking my teeth into her neck.

I left her on the floor in a puddle of blood. She was still alive, but just barely, and too weak to move or make a sound. I might revisit her, I thought, afterwards. She might be siring material, though I doubted it, and my little family was big enough. More likely, she would bleed out on the floor. It was impossible to express how much I didn’t care.

I crept towards the door to the nursery, wiping the blood from my mouth. I slipped back into my human mask, stopping just outside the door to sniff the air again. Young, sweet blood was pumping in there, and I could hear a little girl’s voice humming tunelessly.

Which one should I take first? The little one would make a nice starter, and I wanted to take my time with the older one. On the other hand, Dru would be ever so pleased if I brought home a tasty little morsel for her. Then again, Dru was probably out hunting for herself right now. Best go for the simpler choice.

Slowly and silently, I opened the door.

The room was decorated in soft hues of white, green, yellow and blue. There were two beds, but only one seemed to be in use, as the other was piled high with cushions and toys, a child’s fortress of pretty things. Nearly all the furniture was painted white, in strong contrast to the dark wood that dominated the decor of the rest of the house.

She was sitting on the floor, her back turned to me, surrounded by beautiful china dolls. I should bring a couple back to Drusilla, I thought. She would like them. The girl was maybe six years old, with soft, light brown curls. She was dressed in a frilly dress in a soft shade of purple. I cleared my throat, and she turned to face me. Her eyes were light blueish green, her plump little cheeks rosy.

‘Who are you?’ she asked. 

‘Oh, just a friend of your papa,’ I said, smiling. ‘You can call me William. What are you playing?’

The girl turned back to her dolls. ‘We’re having a ball,’ she said. ‘It’s almost time for tea.’

‘You are Miss Annabelle.’

‘Yes,’ said the girl with the kind of gravity and finality that only small children and the deeply insane possess. 

‘Well, well,’ I said, sitting down on the floor next to her and brushing the hair away from her neck. The girl turned her face to look at me again. ‘Aren’t you a pretty little lamb?’

‘What’s wrong with your face?’ she asked.

Then she didn’t say anything more. She cried out in surprise as I sunk my teeth into her, draining her dry. Her little body twitched in my arms, and then grew still. She tasted so sweet… Afterwards, she lay there, amidst her pretty dolls, as pretty as any of them, her eyes glassy, no more roses in her cheeks.

I stood. I felt rejuvenated, ready for action. Now, only the young Miss Madeleine remained. Everyone else in the house was dead. I glanced at the clock on the wall. It had only just gone eight. I had all the time in the world.

I left the nursery, and knocked on the door to the room next to it.

‘Enter,’ said a dignified soprano voice, and I pushed the door open.

This was not a little girl’s room, but the room of a young woman. All the furniture was very elegant, and the room was decorated in mostly greens and medium dark polished wood. There was a four-poster bed, a large bookcase, a writing desk and several comfortable looking chairs. The girl was seated in an arm chair, its back to the lit fireplace, reading a book. Her hair was flaming red, intensified by the orange light of the fire, her dress green silk. She had the pale skin of a ginger, spotted with cute little freckles here and there. Her eyes were the same shade as her sister’s had been, and her lips were curved in a smile. She looked to be fourteen, perhaps fifteen years old, and I could smell excitement on her. She seemed engrossed in her book. I narrowed my eyes and focused on the spine of the book. Mrs. Radcliffe. How perfect.

She looked up at me as I came closer. 

‘Good evening, Miss Madeleine,’ I said. 

‘I… Who are you?’ Her cheeks flushed. ‘What do you want?’

‘Who do you think I am, love?’ I asked, still advancing on her, very slowly.

She looked me up and down, taking in my suit, which was now rumpled, and my hair, several strands of which had come loose from their ponytail. I had my eyes fixed on her, and saw her shiver.

‘I don’t know,’ she said, hesitantly.

‘Do you think I’m dangerous?’ I asked. 

She looked away from my piercing blue eyes. ‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘Who are you?’

‘My name is William,’ I said. ‘But they call me Spike. Can you guess why, little girl?’

‘I am not a little girl,’ said Miss Madeleine, haughtily. She raised her chin and glared at me. ‘I am very nearly a woman.’

I nodded. ‘Very nearly,’ I agreed. ‘Girls your age… You have the best blood, you know. The sweetest, strongest blood. Your blood is filled with longing, and despair, and joy, and lust, and confusion, because you don’t understand what those feelings mean yet. You’re my favourite, you are, little lamb.’

I had reached her, and now I stood before her, looking down at her face. She was trembling, her book forgotten in her lap. I reached down and cupped her chin in my hand, running my thumb over her bottom lip. She sucked in a breath of air and shut her eyes. 

I pulled her to her feet, the book clattering to the floor, and leaned down to touch my lips to hers. I teased her lips open with my tongue and pressed inside. She responded automatically, and clumsily, the kiss of a maiden who had never felt a man’s touch, and who wasn’t entirely certain what was going on. When I pulled away, she was panting, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She gazed up at me with glazed over eyes. I felt my face change, and the spell was broken. The girl screamed. 

I placed my hand over her mouth to silence her. ‘No one can hear you, you know,’ I murmured. ‘I’ve killed everyone else. I snapped your father’s neck, and I ate your governess. And your little sister, Annabelle… She was a right treat, she really was!’

Madeleine stared at me, wide-eyed and terrified, tears pouring down her face. I pulled her close, my tongue flicking out to lick at the soft skin behind her ear.

‘And you want to know the best part?’ I whispered. ‘Your dear mum, who went away… I ate her, too.’

And then I plunged my fangs into her neck, drinking deep.

‘The sweet milk of adolescence!’ I exclaimed, pulling away. ‘You’re everything I hoped you’d be, pet. Every swallow of you is heaven! You taste like poetry…’

I threw her down on the bed. I hadn’t taken much, just a bit, just enough to feel alive. I loosened the curtains of her bed and used the ribbons they had been tied up with to tie Madeleine’s wrists to the bed posts. The girl was sobbing.

‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Please, let me go! Don’t hurt me anymore!’

‘Oh, I’m only just getting started,’ I said, grinning at her. ‘This is just the beginning! I have all night to make you mine, princess…’

* * *

‘No!’ I cried. ‘Please, I’m sorry, I don’t want to see!’

‘But you must,’ she says, dispassionately, gazing into my eyes. ‘You have to see, you have to know what you did.’

‘I do!’ I shut my eyes again, clutching my head in my hands. ‘I do know, I don’t want to, but I do, God help me…’

‘I wasn’t the first, was I?’ The voice has changed, and I open my eyes, staring at the figure in front of me.

‘Buffy…’ I whisper. ‘God, Buffy, I’m so sorry!’

‘I know,’ she whispers. ‘You’re sorry about me, but are you sorry about them? Are you sorry about all the other girls you hurt? All the other girls you coerced, forced, raped?’

I look away. ‘I… I didn’t…’

‘Didn’t what?’ she snaps. ‘Didn’t rape me? Where do you draw the line, Spike? Even though I stopped you, you raped me long before that night. Long before! You violated me. You made me think I wanted you, that I had no one else, that you were the best I was ever going to get. That… What you did… That was only the climax of months of abuse! So yes, you need to see, Spike. You need to know!’

* * *

Elation. That’s what I felt. Excitement and elation and pure joy. I had stripped the girl before me, down to her undergarments. Her green dress lay in a corner of the room, bloody and torn. I had been at it for hours, drinking a little at a time, making her steadily weaker. I knew exactly how much it would take to kill her, and I made well sure I didn’t. I wanted her to beg me to kill her, but so far, she was still just begging me to let her go. She was delirious from blood loss, every touch hurt her. I had bitten her neck, her wrist, the inside of her elbow, the inside of her thigh. I had broken a few of her fingers, just to hear her scream. She was covered in marks and cuts and bruises. Her sheets were drenched in her blood, even though I tried not to waste too much of it. It was nearly midnight. 

‘Please…’ she whimpered, for the millionth time, ‘please, let me go, just let me go… Just stop… Please…’ Her voice was small, thin, exhausted. I sniffed her, listened to her heartbeat. Her blood loss was considerable. It wouldn’t take much more to kill her, now. My games, it seemed, were coming to an end.

I pulled off my shirt. Her blood, coursing through my veins, was making me hot and hard. I climbed up the bed, straddling her hips, and turned her face towards me, forcing her to look at me.

‘You want it to end, little lamb?’ I growled. ‘You want it to be over?’

‘Yes…’ I could barely hear her. ‘Please…’

‘Do you want to die?’

She stared at me, her fear evident in her gaze. Then she nodded.

‘I’ll grant your wish, princess,’ I said. ‘Soon.’

I tore open her bodice, revealing small breasts tipped by pink nipples, and pulled off what remained of her petticoats. Then I positioned myself between her legs and undid my trousers. I lubed myself up with her blood.

‘Now,’ I said, looking into her eyes, ‘scream.’

She did. She screamed with whatever strength she had left, fresh tears streaking down her face and mixing with her blood, absolute terror radiating off her as her pain and suffering culminated in my release.

I bit into her nipple, drawing blood, and then, as I came, I tore into her jugular. She released a final, gurgling scream, and then she was still, dead beneath me, her eyes staring at nothing.

I pulled out. My chest and hands and cock were covered in her blood, and I laughed.

* * *

Someone’s sobbing. It must be me. And someone else is laughing. I think that might be me as well. 

‘William is a bad man…’ I moan. ‘A bad man… I’m a bad man… Bad…’

I curl up in the foetal position, trying to take comfort in the cold concrete beneath me. I didn’t know having a soul would be so painful. I didn’t know what it would do to me, didn’t realise how it would drive me round the bend. I need help, but there’s no one here who can help me. No one here who will. And no one who should, because I don’t deserve it.


End file.
